


no words to tell me what's right

by SafelyCapricious



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different Framework Universe (Marvel), F/M, Post-Framework Universe (Marvel), The Framework Universe (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 14:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/pseuds/SafelyCapricious
Summary: They all wake up at the same time, straps cutting into flesh, and with no memory of how they got there.Alternate Framework AU





	no words to tell me what's right

**Author's Note:**

> This is vaguely for the prompt: "I know what you did last summer." but mostly it's because I wanted to poke at the framework a little more and this is what came out.

They all wake up at the same time, straps cutting into flesh, and with no memory of how they got there.

 

AIDA is there too – and groggy as they all are, they remember to be wary of that, but then Fitz is stepping between her and them and explaining.

 

Explaining that AIDA needed their minds to help her build her body, to help her become human, and she can see now that she went about it wrong, but she _wasn’t_ human before and it seemed like the most logical path.

 

Jemma feels oddly numb as she watches Fitz take AIDA’s – no, her name is Ophelia now, isn’t it? – hand and rub his thumb over her knuckles. She finds herself looking around for someone, and she’s not sure who.

 

“Was it just us?” Coulson asks, and AIDA – _Ophelia_ – hesitates for a moment before shaking her head.

 

“No,” she says, “the others don’t remember either though, and they’ve all been released. No one was harmed,” she assures them, earnestly, and Jemma isn’t sure what to think.

 

Skye – Daisy, she’s been Daisy for so long, why did Jemma think Skye just now? – keeps shooting her concerned looks as it becomes clear to everyone that regardless of their memories, there’s something there now, between Fitz and Ophelia.

 

Jemma looks around again, unsure who she’s hoping to find.

 

***

 

“It’s perfectly humane,” Jemma assures her newest lab assistant, smile bright as she tightens the instrument. The poor dear isn’t going to last long if she’s this queasy about science, but she probably has a bright future ahead of her in communications.

 

Of course, she might overcome her qualms and be quite good after the first one. It has been known to happen.

 

The specimen on the table whimpers around its gag and she pats its cheek. It had the nerve to try to pretend to be a medical doctor, as if one of its sorts would have the intelligence for such a thing.

 

“Humane?” asks a familiar voice, and she smiles before she’s turned to face him.

 

“Alistair,” she holds out her hands so that he can approach and kiss the air at her cheeks without getting soiled by the blood on her hands. “As humane as _it_ is human. How can I help you?”

 

He laughs, a loud echoing thing that makes her smile even as she strips her gloves off to join him. After all, he doesn’t visit often and her experiments can wait. “Do I need a reason to visit my favorite scientist?”

 

She hands her coat off to her still pale lab assistant and with a gesture leads her guest towards the chairs in the corner, by the wet bar, as her assistants clean up and remove the specimen from the room. “Don’t let Leopold hear you say that, he hasn’t forgiven me for the last imagined slight yet.”

 

Alistair laughs, again, as he was supposed to, and makes himself comfortable at the bar, preparing her drink, then his, and bringing them over without a word. “I’ve never understood why you two don’t get on.”

 

Jemma hides her smile behind her glass and shrugs, eloquently. She knows exactly why, but she’s not so naïve as to think that her own room isn’t bugged, and there’s no reason to make enemies with _her_ , so she doesn’t. Instead she says, “We’re too alike, I suppose, too competitive.”

 

Alistair grants her the hit with a tip of his head, and she wonders if he really expected her to confirm the Madam’s jealousy _here_. She’s no head for politics, and no patience for it either, but she’s far from stupid.

 

“Speaking of competition,” he puts his glass down on the side table and leans forward. Jemma rolls her glass between her palms and pulls her legs up onto the chair. She knows it makes her look terribly young, but it’s comfortable and she’s been on her feet all day. “Apparently one of the heads got taken out this weekend,” he waves a hand, “they kept it quiet till now, the new head consolidating power and the like.”

 

“Oh?” she asks, and waves a hand. In an instant Agent Parker is at her side, handing her a datapad. She flips idly through the memos until she finds the one about the East Coast head changing, while Alistair talks. It’s scarce on details, as is to be expected. It does, however, have the new head’s name, and a picture.

 

Her eyebrows arch as she takes him in. There is something remarkably familiar about this Grant Ward, but she can’t place him.

 

Alistair is still discussing the coup itself – political crossed with military, and fairly bloodless in that only the old head and his most loyal died – and she takes a second to send a look to Parker. It wouldn’t do, to ask aloud, as Alistair is, sometimes, terribly old fashioned, but it would explain how she knows him.

 

Parker correctly reads the arch of her eyebrows and shakes her head, biting her lower lip as she scans her own datapad, before shaking it again, more firmly.

 

Jemma’s eyes trace Grant Ward’s cheekbones – it is a pity that she’s never slept with him. And probably a mistake she should correct.

 

“Not that I don’t love your visits,” Jemma says, once Alistair’s paused for breath, “but does this change of regime effect you in some way?” She spreads her hands and shrugs, “You know I’m hopeless at politics.”

 

He chuckles, but leans forward and takes one of her hands in his. “Now, now, we both know that’s not quite true.”

 

“Flatterer,” she says, and unfolds from her chair. She grabs his glass on his way by and makes them both another, as she waits for him to talk his way around to why he’s here.

 

He takes her hand when she hands his glass back to him, and she arches an eyebrow as he meets her gaze, serious. “He wants to meet you.”

 

“Who – Oh, the new head?” She tilts her head and extracts her hand from his with a last squeeze, taking her seat and shifting to face him. “And that has you concerned.”

 

“New heads are usually busy consolidating their power, first and foremost – not…socializing and stealing staff from other heads.” Alistair protests, scotch almost sloshing out of his glass with the erratic movement of his hand.

 

She considers him, then places her glass on the side table and reaches out for his hand. “Alistair. I don’t work for Leopold. I don’t work for Ophelia either. I work for any, and all, of the heads that are willing to help fund my research. I know you’re fond of me, and I’m very fond of you, but my loyalty is to my science.”

 

He huffs out a breath, “Still,” he says, then stops, because as much as she might know he wants to continue to protest – she’s not sure why he dislikes Leopold and Ophelia together so much, but it’s hardly a secret to her that he’s always envisioned his son with someone more like her – he knows better than to actually voice it.

 

She pats his hand and smiles, before taking her drink in hand and leaning back. “I do appreciate you letting me know of his interest, however,” she raises her glass to him and smiles as he does the same.

 

It is good news for her, after all, maybe this way she’ll be able to figure out why Grant Ward looks so familiar.

 

***

It’s an over active imagination, Jemma tells herself, while she splashes cold water on her face. It’s an over active imagination, or something she ate, or simply her subconscious dealing with the changes that have come to SHIELD since they’ve all come back from the Framework.

 

And she’s probably dreaming of Ward because there hasn’t been hide or hair of his Hydra recently, which is cause for alarm.

 

Mace thinks it’s because now, with Ophelia and her powers on their side, they make a more formidable enemy. Jemma knows that Coulson and the rest of the core team – minus Fitz who is, well, distracted – think it’s something more nefarious.

 

Jemma’s not sure what she thinks, but she knows it’s unusual and it makes her anxious. Which is probably why he’s in her dreams. It couldn’t possibly be anything else.

 

***

 

“I have to say,” she says as she looks out the windows of his office, “I like your decorating much better than Mr. Malick’s.”

 

Grant Ward smirks and hands her a glass. She rolls it around her hands and toes the rug that's, badly, covering the bloodstain.

 

“In my defense,” he starts, standing far too close, “it takes longer than I was anticipating to clean hardwood.”

 

She tips her glass to him and looks back out the window. It's a lovely view. “So what can I help you with…Mister Ward.”

 

“Grant, please,” he corrects, giving her a smile he's no doubt used to great success on many a seduction mission.

 

“Only if you call me Jemma,” she returns, with an arch of her eyebrow instead of a smile.

 

“Well then, Jemma,” he steps closer, then turns. Either he's decided she's not a threat or the glass is reinforced. Even with her skills it would be easy to send him through normal glass at this distance. “I'd like you to be mine. My scientist. I mean.”

 

She considers him. There's no way he doesn't know what he's saying — how he's saying it. He can play the awkward stupid grunt as much as he wants, and it might even work on someone who didn't know the old head. But she knew Malick, and as ‘old school’ and ‘traditional’ as he was, there's no way someone stupid would've gotten the drop on him.

 

It's cute that he's trying to manipulate her though.

 

She turns her attention away from his earnest (and painfully attractive) expression and watches the light reflect off of her glass of gin and tonic. She hasn't had any yet, still too wary, which is a pity.

 

She really hates politics.

 

“Grant,” she says, finally, meeting his eyes straight on even as it requires her head to tip back uncomfortably, “my research, as always, is available to any of the heads who wish to help fund me. I believe my aide sent yours the monetary breakdown. But since Malick had paid through the end of this year, I don't mind simply transferring what I would've offered him to you.” She smiles, faintly. “As a gesture of good faith. You understand.”

 

“I don’t want your gesture of good faith,” he says, stepping closer, “I want you.”

 

She sets her drink on the nearby desk, but refuses to retreat. Instead she tips her head back to meet his gaze and narrows her eyes. “Why?” He opens his mouth – no doubt to ask what she means, or to play dumb – and she slashes a hand through the air. “What do you think that you can gain by winning me over? I haven’t been withholding research, and I don’t care about politics – beyond what I have to deal with to do my work. So why?”

 

He tilts his head, smiles all soft at her. She doesn’t like it. Something must show on her face, because his smile gets sharper, meaner. “I’ve read up on you.” He says it so ominously she half expects him to follow it up with something menacing, ‘I know what you did last summer’ or some attempt at blackmail. Instead he steps to the side, and after a brief moment she realizes he’s sizing her up – like she’s a threat. “Two PhD’s before you could legally drink, the youngest agent to ever graduate from the Sci Tech Academy, more research done than anyone else – including those three times your age. It’s a hefty resume.”

 

“Yes,” she agrees, turning her head so she can keep track of him.

 

“And yet,” he continues, stopping just behind her and leaning down to speak in her ear, all without touching her, “when you had to eliminate an agent, you were dragged in front of a board for review and threatened with disciplinary action.”

 

She knows her spine stiffens. It may have been three years ago, but it’s still a trauma she hasn’t dealt with appropriately. “They’re threatened by me,” she says, after an uncomfortably long silence, “and thought it would put me in my place.”

 

“They’re idiots,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice, “and you’re still helping them with _your_ research.”

 

“So that’s it, then?” she asks, turning to face him – he’s leaning down and smiling that wolflike smile, “You think I’ll join your science division to spite them?”

 

“Not join, lead – create.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head lightly, “Good Ol’ Malick was far more into superstition than anyone should be, and I need a science division built from the ground up.” He walks towards the desk, shuffles some papers around and brings her one packet. “But no, I don’t think spite would be enough. What I’m offering is my full support – regardless of what you do. You kill a man who absolutely doesn’t deserve it? I don’t care – they try to drag you up before the council they go through me.”

 

She flips through the contract – and that’s what it appears to be, a very generous contract. “Did your men agree to this? That I can kill them, willy-nilly?”

 

“Willy-nilly?” he laughs and she finds the sound far more attractive than she should. “No. I don’t think you’re likely to do that – and I think you’re too smart to kill any of the higher-ups without at least some justification. They joined Hydra, they know the risks.”

 

She tilts her head and tucks the papers under her arm. “I’ll look it over.” She pauses, considering, “It’s been…enlightening, Grant.”

 

Suddenly he has her hand, and her palm burns where he’s pressing his lips. “My pleasure, Jemma.”

 

***

“Ophelia,” Jemma asks, when they find themselves alone on a rare occasion – she’s usually off on missions or has Fitz hovering around, it’s rare to see the ex-android alone, “who else did you bring into the framework?”

 

Ophelia watches her with dark eyes for a moment, before tilting her head. The movement, for all that she’s all flesh and bones now, is eerily reminiscent of when she wasn’t, and Jemma imagines she can hear the gears clicking together (gears she didn’t have even before she was human) as she thinks about how to answer. “Why?” she asks finally.

 

It’s Jemma’s turn to consider how to answer – because she cannot say that she’s been having terribly realistic dreams that leave her with memories that she thinks might be from the framework, not when no one else seems to be having them and not when they dreams themselves frame Jemma as a villain.

 

Frame everyone as a villain.

 

“We haven’t heard much of Hydra, recently,” she decides upon, eyes watching Ophelia carefully, “and I was wondering if you’d taken any of them – if they might still be a bit thrown from the experience, as I’m sure you and Fitz didn’t explain what had happened so clearly to anyone else.”

 

Ophelia inclines her head, and after a moment admits, “Yes. Yes, I took…a few from Hydra.” Jemma, eyes locked on Ophelia’s, almost misses the faint smile that crosses the other woman’s lips before she says, “I took Grant Ward.”

 

Before Jemma can ask more, Agent Pepper is ducking her head into the room because they need Ophelia for a mission.

 

Jemma wonders if she’ll sleep at all tonight.

***

 

“He’s in a meeting, Doctor Simmons,” the guard on duty says as she steps off the elevator, but he doesn’t try to stop her as she pushes the door open anyways.

 

Grant looks up, through the vid screen that he’s talking to, and she sees a smile at the edge of his eyes as he cuts off the man speaking. “All good ideas. Each of you, write up a report and submit it by Monday and I’ll get back to you with my decision.” And then he’s turning the screens off as the men bow and scrape.

 

Jemma, now that she’s in the room and has his undivided attention, takes her time walking around it – vaguely in his direction. He turns in his chair to watch her as she pauses to admire a new painting he’s had hung-up. She taps a nail against the frame and tilts her head.

 

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Fitz’s watch, would it?” she asks, eventually.

 

His hands curl, warm, over her hips but she doesn’t let herself lean back into him yet. “Watch?” he asks, “What watch?”

 

She snorts at his light tone but doesn’t respond immediately as she admires Dali’s brush strokes. “The watch Madam Hydra got him for his birthday – the same watch that went missing sometime last week.”

 

Grant moves closer, and she can feel the laugh rumble through the chest he’s got pressed against her back. “I’ve always loved this painting,” he says, “and _Judith y Holofernes_ just wasn’t speaking to me anymore.”

 

“And that wouldn’t have anything to do with Fitz’s new painting of _Saturn Devouring His Son,_ would it?” Jemma finally allows herself to lean back into him, letting him take all her weight.

 

His hands move from her hips to rest more securely around her as he plays with the edge of her shirt. “I didn’t know you had the displeasure of visiting _Fitz_ recently,” he says, light enough that she knows he’s upset.

 

She bites back her smile and hums noncommittally.

 

One of his hands finds its way under her shirt, and she arches slightly into the touch. “ _Saturn Devouring His Son_ is a ghastly painting, and in terribly poor taste, I think.”

 

“Uh-huh,” she says, using all of her willpower not to force his hand somewhere more interesting. “You want me to think it’s coincidence that his very expensive and well known watch goes missing and you acquire the original _Melting Watch_ in the same week?”

 

“Pure coincidence,” he says, and then his lips are on her neck and she decides not to belabor the point. They both know he’s lying, but she cares less than she should. Especially when his hand starts to slip into the waistband of her sensible skirt.

 

She’s expecting him to freeze – and he does – his entire body going still at what his fingers don’t find, and she forces herself to breathe normally to keep from smiling too fondly at it – just incase he could catch her expression in the reflection over the glass of the painting.

 

“Jemma,” he says, voice rough enough that she has to fight the shiver it sends down her spine, “you aren’t wearing any panties.”

 

She agrees with a hum, and when he growls against the skin of her neck, she adds, impishly, “Well, someone kept ripping them, so it seemed silly to put another pair in danger.”

 

He moves then – picking her up easily and carrying her to the edge of his desk in a flash. His hands are on the waistband of her skirt and –

 

She wretches his head back with a hand in his hair and leans down until they’re nose to nose. “If you rip my skirt,” she says, smiling, “I will leave and I will not come back.”

 

His dark eyes move across her face for a moment, looking for veracity, before he nods slightly and leans in – she doesn’t release her grip but he doesn’t seem to notice the pain – to capture her lips in a very through kiss. His clever hands loosen her skirt and help her shift, so that when the kiss has finally come to its breathless end, her skirt is around her waist and unharmed.

 

He puts his mouth on her –

 

And Jemma wakes up with a start, heart pounding, blood rushing and deeply, terribly aroused.

 

**Author's Note:**

> SO! If this wasn't clear, and I'm not actually entirely sure it _is_ ~~but I tried~~ , you can ask me and I'll explain. I really hope it is!
> 
> BUT, if you have any questions, feel free to drop me a line in the comments or ask me over on [Tumblr](http://capriciouswrites.tumblr.com/). I promise to respond to comments with questions quickly! 
> 
> Um. That is all. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> ~~yeah, my ability to write smut is _still_ broken. I'm working on it.~~


End file.
